6 Ficlets All in a Row
by roqueclasique
Summary: I wrote 6 ficlets for a hurt/comfort meme over on LJ, and am posting them here in one document. Each chapter is a new fic. We got bad haircuts, outta-gas Impalas, passed-out Sam, Dean with a busted shoulder, Dean loopy on morphine, & teen!Dean on acid.
1. Sam gets a shitty haircut, Dean rescues

**A/N: **So, these following chapters are **EACH A SEPARATE FIC**. The prompt that I was working off of will appear at the top.

The prompt for this first one is **Sam gets a terrible haircut; Dean to the rescue.** **From now on he'll only let Dean cut his hair.**

:::

Sam's thirteen years old and he's never felt about anyone the way he feels about Lauren Westheimer. She's about four inches taller then him and smells like coconut all the goddamn time, even though they live in freakin' Nebraska -- it's gotten to the point where Sam gets hard every time he's around a Mounds bar or an Almond Joy, which is more often then most kids, considering Dean's slightly skewed ideas of a balanced breakfast.

Lauren sits next to him in homeroom, and Sam falls asleep each night thinking about conversation topics he might bring up with her in the morning, but never does. Maybe because most of his imagined conversations start with something like:

"Hey, Lauren. What'd you do last night? Me, I hunted down an evil Kelpie and almost got strangled by a rope of magically homicidal seaweed..."

Yeah. Not exactly the way to get with the hottest (or at least tallest) girl in seventh grade.

Sam doesn't plan to tell anyone about the enormous, painful crush he's got on Lauren, but Dean shows up to pick him up from school one day, and Lauren's standing there, long brown hair blowing in the wind and sticking to her pink, cupcake-scented lipgloss, while Sam pretends to have forgotten what Mr. O'Donnell's assigned for the next morning.

"Dude," Dean says, when Sam slides into the front seat of the Impala, praying that his face isn't nearly as flushed as it feels. "Please tell me that was her number you were writing down in that dorky-ass notebook."

"What?" Sam squeaks, because his fucking voice is playing tricks on him left and right, and everything that should come out deep seems like it goes through a chipmunk-o-meter first. "No! I was just -- she was just -- I didn't get the homework."

Dean rolls his eyes, pulls the car out of the parking lot, turning the wheel with his left arm, the right hanging carefully in his lap. He fucked up his shoulder a few days ago, dislocated it pretty badly and bruised it besides, and it's clearly still bothering him, though he hasn't been complaining.

"I'm just sayin'," Dean says. "She's cute, for a thirteen year-old. You should make a move, man."

"No," Sam says miserably. "Shut up." He hates his brother sometimes, he really does, hates him for being so perceptive, hates the hickey he's got burned on his neck. Dean's never had a problem with girls. He wouldn't understand what it's like to be too short, too chubby, too smart, with too-thick hair and too-small clothes, weird bruises, the only kid in his homeroom who lives in a tin trailer instead of a real home.

Dean glances over at him, starts to reach out with his bad arm before dropping it with a wince and a hiss of breath through his teeth.

"You need a haircut," he says. "I'll do it tonight, after dinner, if you want. That girl won't be able to resist you, lookin' all suave with your awesome hair."

"No," Sam says, suddenly pissed-off. No one else has their hair cut by their older brother -- normal kids go to the barber, or the what-do-you-call-it, the salon. He does need a haircut, yeah, it's true -- but he's sick of sitting in his bathroom, Dean behind him with a pair of dull, blue-handled scissors, falling hair going down his collar and tickling his neck. "I don't need you to do it. I'll -- I was gonna go to Quick Cuts tomorrow."

"Quick Cuts?" Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. "And how exactly are you gonna pay for that?"

"I get allowance," Sam says indignantly. If by allowance you mean a cut of Dean's hustling money when Sam goes along for the sympathy factor.

"Your funeral," Dean says doubtfully, and pulls onto the long dirt road that leads to the trailer park.

:::

It feels awesome, sitting in one of those black swively chairs with the big apron across his body, a pretty girl behind him, snapping her gum and running her fingers across the hair at the nape of his neck. Sam is glad for the cape-thing that's laid across him, obscuring his lap, because every time one of her long, fake pink nails snags on his skin, the touch goes straight to his groin. He doesn't knwo if this is normal, but it pretty much sucks. Except for the part where he sort of likes it.

"There you go," the girl -- Angela -- says, ruffling his still-wet hair and examining her handiwork. "Whaddaya think?"

"Awesome," Sam beams, because, yeah, it looks pretty cool, layered and shorter than he's used to.

He walks home along the railroad tracks in the August heat, and he can feel his wet hair dry against his head. He can't stop running his hands through it, thinking how he's gonna show Dean, how he's gonna say "I told you so, you moron."

He heads for the bathroom as soon as he gets home, wants to see his new haircut again, see how it looks dry. He heads for the mirror eagerly, already imagining how Lauren will react, how her eyes will soften and her mouth will part slightly, how she'll reach forward towards him, wanting to stroke his hair, wanting to stroke...

He stops in front of the mirror.

His mouth goes dry.

His hair has dried to about six times its normal size. What was layers in the salon has become clown-hair once it's dry, sticking out from his head in a crazy halo of frizzy brown, and his face underneath it looks both too round and too small at the same time.

Sam stares, uncomprehending, one hand raising to touch it, to ascertain that, yes, that's his hair, and yes, it clearly has lost any affection for him, has reneged, has turned traitor and run to the enemy's side.

It's hideous. There's just no two ways about it.

Sam feels his eyes grow hot, and he has to swallow rapidly a few times to prevent the lump in his throat from exploding.

He can't go to school like this. He's already a freak, the new kid, weird Sam from the trailer park with his invisible father and the brother who always looks half beat to death, always a black eye or a walking cast or a sling.

He just wanted Lauren to look at him and see a BOY, a guy, someone she might like, or want to talk to, or ask questions about -- anything to ground him, to make him feel real. Anything but the way she looks through him, like he's a non-issue, a non-story.

Sam heads to his room, breathing deep, can feel the disgusting hair on his head sticking out in all directions, trying to escape his scalp.

He buries his face in his pillow, and if he cries, well, no one is around to hear it.

:::

Sam wakes up three hours later to a knock on his door, and Dean doesn't wait for an answer before barging in.

"What're you--" Sam hears Dean's voice start then stops. "Sam," Dean says in a very different tone. "Did you ... did you cut your hair?"

"Yes," Sam says into the pillow.

Dean is silent, and for a moment Sam thinks he's left. Then there's the creak of floorboards, and Sam's bed dips beside him.

"Sam," Dean says. "That haircut... dude, that haircut is bad fuckin' news. I mean, I can tell from here, and you haven't even looked up."

"No shit," Sam snaps, face still buried in the pillow.

A hand comes out, rests tentatively on his back.

"Hey," Dean says. "You want -- I could look it over? Even out the edges a little? Maybe make the bangs a little shorter, get rid of those freakin' layers, shorten the back? It's really not that bad, man... we can fix it."

Sam is going to say no, is about to protest, but something about Dean's hand on his back, heavy and warm and so competent, stops him.

"Okay," he finds himself saying. And before he knows it, he's in the bathroom, Dean behind him, rusty scissors in hand, bad arm ignored, though Dean can't help but let a couple pained grunts escape as he flexes his fucked-up shoulder.

And the thing is... when Dean's done, and Sam's looking at himself in the mirror... it looks good. Edges straight across, bangs perfectly framing Sam's eyes, silly shaggy curls disappeared.

"Yeah," Dean says with satisfaction, examining his handiwork from every which way, scissors still in hand. "That chick is gonna fuckin' LOVE it."

And Lauren seems to. So much so, in fact, that she waits for Sam after class, bends down, and asks him to the Octoberfest Extravaganza Dance. And Sam, when he says yes, doesn't squeak once.

Dean doesn't say I-told-you-so, but he gives Sam a huge fucking grin when he sees Lauren peck Sam goodbye on the cheek, and Sam can't help but grin back.

"Thanks," Sam says.

Dean doesn't say anything, but he makes a slicing motion through the air with his hand, scissors his fingers in front of Sam's nose.

That's the last time Sam ever goes to a salon.

::: Nine years later :::

"Dean," Sam says, adjusting his tie in the mirror of the motel bathroom where they're staying. "Dean, would you..."

"What?" Dean asks, gently, in that same cautious tone he's been using since he pulled Sam away from the sight of Jess on the ceiling, burning to a crisp while Sam was fucking helpless.

"I need," Sam says, gestures helplessly at his hair, hanging in his eyes, curling down over his ears. "I need..." He can't let Jess's family see him this way. Can't stand like this in front of Jess's grave.

Dean seems to know, though, and he nods, eyes alighting in understanding.

"We'll do it in the bathroom," he says. "C'mon, Sam."

And Sam succumbs, succumbs to the feeling of his brother carding through the hair at his neck, to the feel of those calloused fingers running gently through the too-long strands. And Sam thinks, of course, of Jess, and how she used to play with his hair for hours: the familiar tug of her nails, the pull of her fingers, her hands smoothing down his head, down his back... thinks how he'll never feel that again, has to close his eyes against the sting of tears against his lids, so familiar these past few days, that sudden, shocking knowledge that he'll never see her again, never feel her again, and even though he knows, he knows she's gone, it's like someone's smacked him in the face with a hammer each time he remembers. Jess is gone. Jess is never coming back.

"Hey," Dean murmurs, pushes Sam's head gently to one side, strong hands sure and familiar, competent, cupping the back of Sam's neck with a casual tenderness that Sam's only ever felt in these moments, his hair falling down around his feet to puddle like soft, strange rain.

And for just a moment, with Dean's warm hands pressing against his temples, the rhythmic snip-snip of the scissors, Sam thinks everything is going to be all right.

Thinks maybe this is just a bad haircut, and his big brother is here to fix it. Will always be here, to fix it.


	2. PostBUABS: Impala's outta gas

**A/N: **The prompt was** - Post BUaBS. Sam wakes up, middle of the road, middle of the night, middle of nowhere. Dean's run the tank bone dry.**

**:::**

It's the quiet that wakes him.

Sam's always had trouble sleeping, ever since he was a kid, lying in bed staring at whatever stain was spreading itself across his current ceiling, waiting for his face to relax, forcing his breath into regularity: four beats in, eight beats out. Four beats in. Eight beats out. He followed Dean's lungs for cues: Dean, always close by, always asleep before his head hit the pillow, steady whoosh of air through his lungs soothing Sam better than any lullaby could. Sam had a single his sophomore year at Stanford, before he moved off campus, and he had to switch halfway through first semester. It was too quiet, alone in his room, even when he put on a fan for white noise. He needed someone else breathing near him, reminding him how to breathe, himself.

That, he thinks, is why he's always slept best in the Impala: the hum of the engine never falters, never loses rhythm, and Sam never finds himself straining to hear it, to make sure it's still alive in the bed across from him. The passenger seat isn't exactly comfortable, not since Sam shot up over six feet, but it's still the most effective bed Sam's ever known, with surround-sound road whirring below his feet, the familiar purr of his home's engine.

So it's the silence that suddenly has him blinking up out of sleep, body tensing, an awareness that something isn't right.

Dean's next to him, both hands resting on the wheel, but the car isn't moving. Sam squints, realizes that they've settled on the shoulder of the highway, and as he comes awake he feels the Impala rock in the wake of a shrieking semi, blaring past in a blur of light and noise.

"Dean?" Sam asks, uncertain.

Dean glances over at him, tries a smile. "Hey. Uh. Go back to sleep."

"Where are we?" Sam asks, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, pushing himself up and peering around.

"Route 93," Dean says. "Almost out of Vermont."

"Okay," Sam says slowly. "Why'd you stop? You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, thrums the fingers of his right hand against the wheel. Sam sees that his left hand is in his lap, elbow close to his body, like he's trying not to move it too much, and he feels a swell of guilt surge up his throat, corrosive as battery acid.

"Hey," Sam says. "Your shoulder buggin' you? You need me to drive for a while?"

"Nah," Dean says, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. "I'm good. Go back to sleep, Sam."

"Dude," Sam says, getting annoyed. "It's--" he flips open his phone. "It's 4am. We're on the side of the highway. I'm already awake, so I feel like you may as well clue me into what the fuck we're doing here."

Dean tightens his lips, looks like he's gonna get pissed, but then he sighs. "We're outta gas."

Sam blinks. "What?"

"We. Are. Out. Of. Gas. That smelly black stuff that makes a car go zoom? That. We're out."

"Okay," Sam says. "Woah. What?"

"Jesus, Sam. Apparently they quit teaching English at college, huh?"

"No," Sam says, shakes his head, "sorry. I get it. I just--" He's just too fuckin' tired for this shit. "I just don't really understand how that happened. Weren't you -- how exactly did you not --" He stops, 'cause anything else he says is gonna sound like an accusation. Which, okay, would kind of be in order, because seriously? The Impala makes one false noise and Dean's crooning his alarm into her engine, or stretched out underneath her body poking at - poking at whatever the fuck you poke at when your car makes funny sounds. "Out of gas" isn't an Impala-ailment in Dean's vocabulary.

"How--" Sam asks again, 'cause he can't help it, it's just weird.

"I wasn't -- I was -- I wasn't thinking about it," Dean says, and Sam can see his frustration, even in the dark half-light from the almost-full moon. "I let my mind wander for five fucking seconds, and..."

And Sam suddenly doesn't want to know, can't stand to hear what his brother was thinking, because Sam can imagine it well enough for himself: he could be thinking about the cloying water of a dirty harbor, or the crack and fire of a bullet to the shoulder, or the feel of Dean's own fingers wrapped around the barrel of a gun, aimed at someone's head, someone asking him to do it, to shoot, to end it before it begins...

"Hey," Sam says, reaches out, loses courage at the last second and passes his fingers over the dash instead of Dean's arm, limp in his lap. "It's okay. We can call someone. We can --"

"It's 4am, Sam," Dean says, tone resigned. "We're kinda stuck here 'til at least 7. You may as well get some fuckin' sleep."

"No," Sam protests. "We can't just sit by the side of the highway, someone could come along, slam into us... it's not safe."

"I've got the hazards on," Dean says. "Just... just go to sleep, okay?"

Sam opens his mouth, about to say something else, but just then Dean lets out this little sigh, like he's not even aware, and Sam sees how tired his brother looks, pain lines etched into the corners of his mouth, lips white around the edges. And Sam knows it's not something he can help. Knows he's just gonna make it worse.

So, "Fine," he says, and turns away from his brother, presses his forehead to the cool of the glass window. There's no way he's going to sleep. Not like this, not with Dean tense and in pain next to him, not with this weight he feels pressing on his chest, like his lungs are filled with black tar -- there's no way he can sleep.

This is the last thought he has before his eyes close, and he drifts off to the steady rise and fall of Dean's breath in the seat beside him. Regular and clear, like the beat of Sam's own heart.


	3. Dean hurts his shoulder

**A/N: **The prompt was: **Dean hurts his shoulder. **This is absolutely plotless whump, guys. Just so you know.

:::

John hears the beam start to fall before he ever sees it, a groaning creak of breaking wood that has him turning his head, almost slow-motion, just in time to watch one of the rafters in the old barn separate from the ceiling and come plunging down on top of his eldest son.

"Dean," John hears Sam shout, a flurry of skinny thirteen year-old limbs and shaggy hair darting past him as John takes a deep breath, gives himself that fraction of a second to quell the overwhelming beat of panic *Dean Dean Dean* before he moves.

Dean is conscious, barely, his eyelids fluttering like it's a struggle to keep them open, his mouth hanging slack in a dazed picture of astonishment.

"Wha—" he asks, then lets out a hoarse almost-yell as Sam hauls the beam off of where it's fallen across his upper body. John tightens his lips and reaches out to hold his son's head and neck still as he tries to buck up off the ground. Dean's shoulder is clearly, horribly dislocated, practically separated from the rest of his torso, and John's betting there's at least one broken rib in this deal, too. Concussion. Bruising.

"Steady," John says sharply. "What hurts, Dean?"

Sam drops to the dusty ground next to them, huge puppy hands reaching out gingerly towards his brother and then recoiling.

"My fuckin' shoulder," Dean groans. "Jesus motherfucking tapdancing Christ, owwww."

"Okay," John says. "What else? Can you feel your toes and everything?"

"Yes, I can feel my goddamn toes," Dean snaps, and John knows the pain must be bad.

"Your shoulder's fucked," Sam comments, clearly trying to make a contribution any way he can.

"Y'know who's fucked?" Dean mutters, and John puts a pre-emptive palm on his chest, carefully.

"All right," John says. "Your shoulder's dislocated, Dean. I'm gonna have to—"

"Do it," Dean says, jaw already clenching eyes, lips flattening in a thin line.

John does it. He's done this a million times before, sadly, but it never gets any better, feeling that crunch of bone as his son's joint grinds back into place, hearing Dean's bitten-off yell of pain panted in his ear. It's moments like this where things are blurred, where John feels at once the most connected to his child's body, and the most separated from it – he has to tamp down the corners of his fear, ignore the fact that this is Dean, his son, and focus instead on the abstraction of Dean's body. This is just a shoulder, this is just an elbow, connected to just a random chest. Could belong to anyone.

Only after the joint is back in place and Dean is uttering a loose string of curses does John look up at his face, sweat-damp and white.

"Can you stand?"

"Told you my toes're fine," Dean says, but it still takes a solid five minutes to ease him into a sitting position and pull him to his feet. He's concussed, that much is clear, probably from where his head smacked into the ground when he fell.

"Taken out by a log," he mumbles as John eases him into the back seat of the Impala, parked on the edge of the field. "We kill the fuckin' Chupacabra, no fuckin' problems, and I'm taken out by wood."

Sam snorts, sliding in beside his brother. "Dad always told you not to think with your—"

"Do not make me laugh, you asshole," Dean groans, palming his ribs with his good hand as John puts the car into gear, starts off down the road, dawn just breaking over the damp, black pavement and shining golden fields.

:::

The worst part of it is the fact that he can't drive, Dean reflects, glancing down at his arm, bound tightly to his wrapped chest. The second-worst part is that he had to let Sam help him put his freakin' t-shirt on. The third-worst part is it's his right shoulder, and he's right-handed, and he's having a hell of a lot of fucking trouble taking this stupid goddamn math test right now, scrawling illegible numbers with his left hand. He's more or less ambidextrous when it comes to fighting, but writing? It's like pure torture.

He still finishes before the bell rings, eases himself out from behind his desk and moves slowly to drop it off by Mrs. Keeling's elbow. She glances up, gives him a smile and a worried up-and-down. He does his best to grin, edging out into the hallway as quickly as his aching body will take him.

They've only been in this school for about three weeks, long enough that kids still stare even when he's not mummy-wrapped and black-eyed, and he feels eyes boring into him as he makes his way to his locker.

He fumbles with the combination one-handed, then gives himself a second to lean into the cool darkness of his locker, take a couple deep breaths, despite his ribs. His shoulder is throbbing fiercely, a steady pound that works its way up through his neck and jaw, and his ribs are making him painfully aware of every movement.

Thank god he's got lunch next. He's not sure if he could sit through another class like this, and he needs a smoke.

His shoulder's hurting too much for him to think of eating anything, though, and he wishes he'd listened to Sammy and taken the fucking pain pills he'd tried to force on Dean this morning.

Instead of going to the cafeteria, Dean heads outside to the small hill behind the football stadium, eases himself carefully down onto the grass with the minimum of curses. He grapples with his pack of cigarettes, clumsy fingers trying to work one free and get it lit, and when he finally does he takes a careful drag, trying not to breathe too deep and set his ribs off, then goes about attempting to find a comfortable position.

Apparently they don't really exist. He ends up on his back, with his head propped up on his backpack, feet planted on the ground, knees to the sky. He rests the cigarette in mouth, gets his good hand tight around his bad elbow, pulling it even closer to his body, willing it to shut the fuck up for just one goddamn second.

The sun feels good, warm and expansive, and the smoke goes a little ways towards making him feel better.

He feels a shadow cross over him, and he opens his eyes just in time to see a hand reach down towards his face and snatch the cigarette from between his lips.

"Dude," Dean protests as Sam's face comes into focus above him. "Seriously, what, are you in training to be a D.A.R.E. officer or something?"

Sam doesn't say anything, just tosses the butt onto the ground and grinds it out with one sure foot before he flops down next to Dean.

Dean starts to sit up, but it's easier said than done, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to get his shoulder to quit screaming at him. He feels Sam work a gentle hand under his back, and he doesn't really have another choice but to let his brother help raise him to a seated position, trying to keep his breath shallow.

"You should go home," Sam says worriedly.

Yeah, Dean's with him all the way, there. But he doesn't have the car, and he can't walk home like this. He's worried he'd fall over.

"Maybe," Dean says. "Maybe I'll just hang out here. Work on my tan. Watch the cheerleaders. Wait 'til you're done." When Dad shows up to give them a ride.

Sam eyes him, reaches out a hand and lightly touches Dean's temple, where he knows he's got a pretty nasty bruise.

"I could be done now," he suggests. "We could walk home together."

Dean doesn't raise his eyebrows, 'cause his head's hurting a little too much for that, but he does say, "Sammy. You suggesting you skip class?"

Sam shrugs a little. "It's just Global History, and we have a sub 'cause Mr. McKenna's sick, and then P.E., which is fucking boring. We're playing ping-pong, isn't that stupid? It's like, beautiful outside, and we're stuck in the smelly gym playing ping-pong. I suck at ping-pong."

Dean hesitates. He would give pretty much anything to be in his bed right now, get a little pharmaceutical relief in him. But he can't just—

"Please?" Sam wheedles, looking up at him with those wide hazel eyes.

"You're just looking for an excuse to ditch," Dean snorts.

"Yeah," Sam agrees immediately.

Dean wants to protest, he wants to, so bad, but—

"Fine," he says, huffs a fake-sigh that has him wincing as his ribs protest. He tries to think of a good insult, but he's too fuckin' tired. "Loser."

Sam rolls his eyes, clambering to his feet and waiting patiently as Dean slowly pushes himself upward. Everything spins for a couple seconds, then evens out, but Dean's listed to the side enough that Sam's moved closer, clearly at-the-ready in case Dean should take a nosedive.

He seems to have grown three inches in the past week, and Dean notes with surprise that the top of Sam's head is now level with his nose.

"Come on," Sam says, nudges him a little, and Dean follows his little brother off the campus and down onto the bright street.


	4. S2 Sam passes out from a vision

**A/N: **The prompt was **S2 Sam passes out from a vision. Dean is worried.**

**:::**

One minute Sam's bitching about the tepid temperature of his gas-station coffee, and the next he's on his knees next to the hood of the Impala, hands flying to his head, eyes slamming shut.

Dean drops quicker than he thought possible, his knees hitting the pavement with a jarring thud that he knows he's gonna be feeling later.

"Sam," he says urgently, "Sam, what--"

"Vision," Sam gasps out, his breath coming in short, pained gasps, long fingers squeezing his temples so hard it looks like he's gonna break straight through his skull.

"Easy, Sam," Dean says, "Jesus, breathe through it, okay?" He reaches out, hand hovering over Sam's hair, his shoulder, his back, not knowing where or how to land, how to make this better.

Sam's face has gone white, and he's shuddering for air in a way that Dean's never heard before.

"Breathe," he repeats, a flutter of panic fighting its way through his belly and up into his throat. "Breathe, Sammy, you gotta breathe, man."

Dean doesn't know what the fuck to do, just lays a palm on his brother's back, feels Sam's lungs expand in short fits and starts, feels the sharp edge of his brother's spine. The sky is huge and blue and the sun beats down, too hot, too much, and suddenly, despite the enormity of the sky and the endless stretch of highway and field surrounding them, Dean feels furiously claustrophobic, like all the air in the world is pressing down on him and Sam, crouched by the gas pump, spilled coffee seeping into the knees of Sam's jeans, the harsh gasp of breath the only sound besides the hum of cars passing on the highway.

And then, without any real warning, Sam's eyes roll up in the back of his head and he slumps forward.

"Sam!"

Dean grabs him just before his face collides with the pavement, and Sam's body is heavy, dead weight, and Dean feels all the blood rush from his face, fear flooding his body like a white-hot tidal wave.

"Sam," Dean says, "Sammy, wake up, man, wake the fuck up, not here, Sam, Sam, Sammy," repeats his name like a mantra as he manhandles Sam over so he's on his back, half-lying over Dean's legs, and Dean presses a hand to his brother's heart and lowers his ear to his mouth, feels Sam's breath ghost over his cheek, his heart steady under Dean's trembling hand.

Dean's relief is short-lived, however, because his brother is passed out cold in his lap, and that's really not a good thing by any stretch of the imagination.

"Christ," he mutters. These fucking visions. What the fuck? Like it isn't bad enough that Sam has some freaky psychic powers – they have to hurt him, too?

"Wake the hell up, man," he says, slaps Sam's cheek lightly, then a little harder. "Sam, come on."

And then Sam's eyes slip open, pupils blown wide, and for a second Dean's heart skips a beat, because Sam is looking straight at him, but he doesn't see him, is staring through Dean as if he were nothing, pure figment, dust on the breeze. And it's the worst feeling in the whole world.

Then Sam's eyes focus, and he says, "Are we cuddling?"

Dean gives a shaky, horrified laugh. "Dude. Sam. You just fainted."

"Is that why I feel like shit?" Sam asks, tries to sit up, but he's trembling a little and his face is still bone-white, and he sags back into Dean's arms for a minute. And Dean doesn't mind, maybe even squeezes a little, because goddamn, he was scared shitless for a second, there.

Then Sam says, in a weary voice that cuts Dean straight to the core, "We gotta turn around."

Dean's about to ask why, then he remembers. "Oh. Did you see –"

"Yeah. It's… it's gonna be bad. If we don't hurry." Sam pushes his way into an upright position, and Dean stares at the dark circles under his eyes, the way it looks like he's aged five years in five minutes.

It's bad right now, Dean wants to say. It's bad right here.

But he just climbs to his feet, offers Sam a hand up, and gets behind the wheel.


	5. Dean gets loopyloving on painkillers

**A/N: **The prompt was **Dean on strong painkillers gets loopy and clingy, telling the nurses how much he loves his brother and not wanting Sammy to ever leave him, stuff like that - and yes, Sam is totally allowed to make fun of him afterwards.**

**:::**

The first thing Dean does when he wakes up is look at Sam and smile.

"Hey," Sam says, scoots his chair closer to the hospital bed. "Hey, Dean. How you feelin'?"

The smile slides slowly into a frown. "Hmmm."

"You're in the hospital," Sam says, not sure if that's a helpful thing to say or not. "You busted your collarbone and a bunch of ribs, and one of them pierced your lung and it collapsed, and you just had a bunch of surgery on your shoulder, 'cause you busted that, too."

"Hmmm," Dean says again, and his face twists a little. "Ow."

"Does it hurt?" Sam asks, twisting around in his chair to look for the button for the morphine drip, even though he's pretty sure his brother's pumped to the brim.

"No," Dean says, blinks a couple times, slow, like he's trying to focus his eyes. "But… it sounds like it'd hurt." He's slurring his words pretty badly. "Y'okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I'm fine, man. Except for this." He gestures to his face, where he knows he's got a black eye in a pretty major way.

"'S dead, right?" Dean asks, looking a little more lucid.

"Yeah, Dean. It's totally dead."

"Good." Dean lifts his good hand, the one that's not strapped to his torso, drops it. "Wha' wassit?"

"Rawhead," Sam says.

"Fuckin' rawheads."

"Yeah."

The door opens and a nurse comes in, smiles when she sees Dean blink up at her.

"Look who's awake!" she chirps, coming over to check Dean's vitals.

"Who?" Dean asks, looking genuinely confused.

"You, silly," the nurse says. She looks at Sam. "When'd he come to?"

"'Bout three minutes ago," Sam says. "He seems a little… confused."

"'M right here," Dean mumbles. "Stop talkin' like 'm a llama."

Sam looks at the nurse with wide eyes, silently mouths "A llama?"

"It's okay," she says, "he's just on lots and lots of the good stuff. Aren't you, honey?"

Dean lets her prop him up a little on the pillows, grimaces a little. His neck doesn't seem to be supporting his head all that well.

"You had your brother pretty worried," the nurse says, smoothes the hair back from his forehead in an unconscious gesture that has Sam's throat lumping up, for some reason. Dean looks so young, his skin milk-pale, freckles dark on his hollow cheeks, eyes enormous and green.

"Y'were worried, Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"'S my 'lil brother," Dean tells the nurse. "'Cept hoo boy. He's big."

"Sure is," the nurse agrees, looking up at Sam.

Dean makes a strange grasping motion with his good hand, reaching towards Sam, and Sam looks down at him, confused.

"What's up, Dean?"

"Gimme," Dean slurs, makes a frustrated noise, stretches his fingers at Sam.

"I think he wants to hold your hand," the nurse beams.

Sam looks at Dean doubtfully. "Yeah, I don't think so."

But Dean nods, head lolling forward a little alarmingly. "'S my 'lil brother," he repeats, in this tone of pride that has Sam's chest going all soft and fuzzy against his will.

He reaches out hesitantly, and Dean grabs onto his fingers. "Sam's smart," he tells the nurse.

"Uh huh," she says. "I can tell. It's getting late though, sweetheart, and your brother's going to have to leave soon." She turns to give Sam an apologetic glance, which means she completely misses the expression on Dean's face – but Sam doesn't. Dean looks like someone just told him that all the burgers in the world have been replaced with Tofurkey.

"Sam?" Dean questions, tightens his weak hold on Sam's fingers. Sam swallows.

"Yeah, man, visiting hours were over like, an hour ago."

Dean closes his eyes, and for a second Sam's pretty sure he's fallen asleep, just like that, but then he opens them again. "You're leaving?"

Sam casts the nurse a desperate glance.

"Sam's got to get some sleep," the nurse says. "Aren't you tired, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I have to go to bed, Dean."

Dean looks around, then brightens. "I'm inna bed!"

"Uh-huh. Okay, but I need to go to my own bed."

Dean's face falls again. Sam's gonna laugh about this later, hell yes he is, but right now? He feels kind of terrible.

"Maybe I could—" Sam says, looks at the nurse.

"'S my 'lil brother," Dean says for the third time. "'S smart. 'S why he left. Sam, you're gonna leave ag'n?

"No!" Sam almost shouts. "Dean, I'm gonna come back in the morning, man. I'm not – this isn't like that."

The nurse is looking back and forth between them, confused.

"Sammy," Dean says affectionately, and Sam realizes they're still holding hands, so he gives Dean a clumsy pat.

"Look," Sam says to the nurse. "I – can't I just stay the night? He – he'll freak out if he wakes up and I'm not here."

"I'ma freak," Dean mumbles. "I'ma totally freak."

She looks doubtful, and Sam puts everything he's got into giving her the most plaintive, soulful look he can manage.

"Okay," she says, her face softening. "We make exceptions for family, sometimes."

"Family," Dean repeats solemnly. Then, "Football."

"Football," Sam repeats, as the nurse bustles around, getting Dean ready to go back to sleep, even though he just spent a solid forty-eight hours in dreamland.

She tells Sam he can sleep in the empty bed next to his brother, and Dean smiles up at her and tells her she can stay too, if she wants, and Sam doesn't know if it's his brother's attempt at a joke, or if Dean really is that far gone.

Dean starts slipping off pretty soon after she leaves, and Sam sits by his bed, talks about nothing, about the stupid lame soap operas he watched all yesterday while waiting for Dean to get out of surgery. He doesn't know if his brother's following any of it, but it's just nice to have him awake.

"Sam," Dean says right before he passes out for the night. "'S 'cause you're my favorite."

"Huh? What's 'cause what?"

"'S why when you leave I—I'm always—" Dean stops, appears to think. Decides on, "Salty."

"Go to sleep, man," Sam says, and reaches out, smoothes his brother's forehead like the nurse did. He's slightly clammy, hair a little damp, but Sam does it again, and Dean's eyes slip closed.

Even after Dean's asleep, Sam keeps his hand on his forehead 'til his own head starts nodding and he crawls onto the next bed, toes off his shoes, and is out like a light.

:::

"I did not say that," Dean says the next evening as they pull away from the hospital, Dean propped up in the back with a couple pillows and the bottle of Vicodin, Sam glancing at him in the rearview.

"You did too, swear to god," Sam says. "You said, 'I'm a freaky llama,' and then you asked the nurse to sleep in your room."

"God," Dean says, drags his good hand down his still too-pale face. "Is that why you were with me in the morning? To protect the nurses?"

Sam laughs. "No, man, you wanted to hold hands and then you wouldn't let me go."

"Ah, shut up."

"It's true!"

"Right," Dean says. "And then you, me, and the nurse had a huge cuddle puddle."

Sam laughs, mostly at the words "cuddle puddle" coming from Dean's mouth, but his laughter falls a little flat. Is it so hard for Dean to believe that he'd wanted Sam to stay with him?

"Really though," Dean says, like he's reading Sam's mind. "How come you stayed the night?"

Sam's about to tell Dean the hand-holding story again, about to tease him mercilessly, but then he hesitates.

"'Cause I wanted to," he says finally. "I didn't want to leave you."

"You big fuckin' girl," Dean says, but when Sam glances into the rearview, Dean's smiling to himself a little.

Sam feels his own mouth quirk up, and he leans back into the driver's seat, flicks the turn signal and pulls the Impala out onto the highway.


	6. Teen Dean on acid

**A/N: **The prompt was **Teen!Dean on acid, Sam has to talk him down from a bad trip.**

**:::**

Sam's lying on the couch sucking on an ice-cube, trying to decide which is worse, being so cold that your fingers fall off, or so hot that the only thing you can do is lie on the couch and suck ice cubes. Right now he's leaning towards hot… it's gotten to the point where he'd almost trade a pinky for a cool breeze.

He hears a thud in the kitchen, figures Dean must be home. Fuck Dean. He'd left early that morning to go swimming, wouldn't take Sam no matter how much he begged, and Sam's still pissed at him. He never lets Sam come with him anywhere, even when he's just going to the lake and it's four thousand degrees out.

He hears a familiar high-pitched cackle and rolls his eyes, can't help but smile a little. Sam pretends to dislike Ray Montagne, Dean's newest best friend, a tall, skinny kid with a Mohawk and weird holes in his earlobes, but really he sort of thinks he's cool, and funny, though he hates it when Ray calls him Deanita, which apparently means "Little Dean" in Spanish, which Ray doesn't speak. Dean doesn't like it either, chuffs Ray on the back of the head and says "Little Dean" sounds like a nickname for his dick, not his little brother, and though Sam really wishes Dean wouldn't compare him to a penis, he kind of has to agree with him on that one. But Ray's pretty smart, though he hides it, and besides the nickname he's nice to Sam, talks to him like he's a grown-up instead of Dean's thirteen year-old kid brother, takes him seriously. So he's okay in Sam's book.

Sam pushes himself to his feet and pads into the kitchen, prepared to whine about the heat and see if he can get Dean and Ray to spray the hose on him to make up for leaving him behind this morning.

Dean looks up when he comes in, and Ray goes, "Oh, shit."

"Sammy," Dean says, eyes wide, and there's something about them that makes Sam pause, do a double-take. His pupils are HUGE, obscuring almost all the green, and they track Sam strangely as he comes into the room.

"It's so fucking hot," Sam says, throws himself down at the table across from Dean, their crappy half-dead kitchen chair squealing a little underneath him.

"Like soup," Dean says, makes a weird motion like he's parting the air with hands. "It's like the air is made of soup."

"Yeah," Sam says. Weirdo. "Soup."

"Dude," Ray says from across the room, and he and Sam both glance up to see Ray gripping the shiny handle of the refrigerator with this wide-eyed, amazed look on his face. "Dude, I think your fridge is breathing."

Sam laughs, though he doesn't really get the joke, but Dean is up and at Ray's side, arms crossed over his chest, examining the fridge.

"Holy shit," Dean says, reaches out a tentative hand. "I never… it's like… it's like…"

"It's like everything is alive," Ray says in awe. "It's like… it's like the whole world is connected and it all has the same rhythm, like, we're all breathing at the same exact time."

Dean doesn't say anything, just puts a palm flat to the white belly of their busted, fifties-style refrigerator, leans his head on the back of his hand and closes his eyes.

Sam, watching at the kitchen table, looks from Ray to Dean, trying to figure out what's going on. As he watches, Ray slithers to the floor and cocks his head, stares at the ceiling.

"Why do they keep humans in houses?" Ray asks. "Like, we're always covered. We wear clothes, we have roofs, we drive little boxes around… what are we trying to protect ourselves from?"

"Lots of stuff," Dean says suddenly, looks up from where he's leaning against the fridge, opens his eyes. "Lotta stuff, man. There's… there's a lotta shit out there."

"Dean," Ray says. "Dude, I can see your words. They're like… I can see them. Like, in color. You're green, man, did you know that? You're one hundred percent a green person. And a little bit of purple. Green and purple. Mostly green. But some purple. It's…" Ray waves his hands, frames Dean between his thumb and pointer finger. "It's everywhere."

Dean moves back to the kitchen table, slow and careful, like he really is moving through soup. His pupils are even bigger, if that's possible, and Sam feels this irrational panic for a second. Black eyes, acting freaky, this shifty, weird look on his face – he's gotta check. Better safe than sorry.

"Hey," Sam whispers from across the table, and Dean looks up. "Christo!" Sam hisses.

Dean just blinks at him, eyes going all sad and his face falling. "Sammy?" he asks, opens his mouth, looks like he wants to say something else but can't quite. So he says, "Sammy?" again, in this little, questioning voice.

"Sorry," Sam says, embarrassed, but no less confused. "It's just…" he trails off as Dean slides a hand across the table to hover in front of Sam's face.

"Dude," Ray says. "I stepped on a spider yesterday."

Dean drops his hand, swings his head slowly around to look at his friend. "Woah."

"Yeah." Ray is flat on the ground now, hands raised up towards the ceiling, doing something weird with his fingers. "I did it… I did it on purpose. 'Cause it jumped on me. But I'm never doing it again, man. It's just fucked up, you know? Like – it's not my right to kill anything. Can you imagine being a soldier? I mean, can you imagine shooting a gun?"

Sam darts a glance at Dean, who is sitting frozen in his chair, face gone a little pale under his tan and the sunburn across his nose.

"Even spiders," Ray continues. "No way, man. Never again. We're all connected. It's not my right to kill anything, even bugs. Fuck, no. Never again."

"Dean," Sam says, because Dean is clutching the edge of the table, looking like he's trying to keep himself from flying away. What the fuck is going on? They're acting so fucking weird, and their pupils are blown, eyes bloodshot, and…

"Hey," Sam says, realization hitting like a lightning bolt. "Are you guys on drugs?"

Neither of them answer, and then Ray says, "You're cool, right, Sam?"

What's he supposed to say to that? He tries, but he doesn't know if he succeeds. "I dunno."

"Yeah, you're cool. Dude…" Ray glances at Dean, who nods a little. "We just dropped the best acid I've ever taken in my LIFE."

"Acid?" Sam asks. "Like, LSD?"

"Yeah. Holy shit, it's so fuckin' intense."

Sam sits back, digesting this information and trying to remember what he knows about LSD. Hallucinations, he thinks. The Beatles.

Dean still hasn't said anything, and Sam looks over at him. "Dean," he says. "You okay?"

Dean looks up like he's startled to see someone else in the room with him, swallows, blinks.

"Deano's not a big talker when he's tripping," Ray says.

"So you've done this before?" Sam asks, trying to figure out if he disapproves or if he thinks it's cool. It's a little scary to think of his big brother on drugs, though he knows Dean smokes weed, has learned to recognize the signs when his brother comes home at night and raids the fridge for anything he can put in his mouth.

"Yeah," Ray says. "You're gonna love it, Sam. When you're old enough."

Sam kind of doubts that.

"Sam," Dean says, smacks a hand on the table. Both Sam and Ray jump.

"What's up, man?" Sam asks, keeps his voice gentle, because Dean looks a little skittish, and Sam learned in D.A.R.E. that people on drugs freak out sometimes, and Dean looks like maybe he's freaking out a little.

"The spiders," Dean says, swallows and glances at Ray.

"Spiders?"

"He killed the… spider."

Ray's attention has wandered back to the ceiling, and he doesn't say anything, so Sam says, "Yeah, he killed the spider. But he says he's never gonna do it again."

Dean presses his lips together, and even though he's seventeen, he suddenly looks eight years old. "Sammy," he says, like it's the only thing he knows for sure how to say. "We. Do that."

"Do what, Dean?"

"The spiders," Dean whispers. "Killing."

Sam gets a little chill despite the heat of the day, and he looks at Ray, who's still not listening. "Hey," he says. "That… what we do, it's different."

"Dunno," Dean says, shifts his eyes down to the table, traces some weird pattern on it with his finger. "Sam… you're just a kid."

"So are you, man."

"No," Dean says, then, "yeah. Sometimes." He wiggles his fingers on the tabletop, looks agitated. "Christo," he says under his breath, to no one, or maybe to himself. "Christo, christo, christo."

Suddenly he shoves back his chair, startling Sam, and stands up. "Ray, dude," he says. "Hey."

"What's up, man?" Ray asks lazily from the floor.

"Can we…?" he asks, waves his hand at the door. "Outside, man. I… want… I need…" He rolls something invisible between his fingers, touches his mouth.

"You need a smoke," Ray finishes, and Dean nods, looking relieved. "Okay, man," Ray says. "So let's go outside."

Sam almost gives his usual "you're-gonna-kill-yourself" anti-smoking litany, but he thinks maybe now is not the time, not with Dean already looking so tweaked-out, talking about spiders and shit.

"Uh, Sammy?" Dean says, makes a come-on motion.

"You want me to come?"

"Yeah."

They troop outside to the backyard, which is really just a fenced-in box of dirt and sparse grass, an old grill piled in one corner, a couple rickety lawnchairs.

They all drop into the chairs, and Ray leans his head back to look at the sky, goes off on how beautiful the clouds are, and how crazy it is that they're made of water, and other cloud-babble that Sam doesn't listen to in favor of watching his brother.

Dean spends a while flicking his lighter on and off, staring at the flame before he finally lights the cigarette in his mouth, blows a couple smoke rings that has Ray crowing in delight. Dean grins, then, and Sam relaxes a little, because he realizes that this is the first time he's seen Dean smile yet today.

The smile fades quickly, though, and Dean stares at the dirt in the backyard, stares at the grill in the corner, smoking silently and moving his feet around in a rhythmic pattern that sets Sam on edge.

He thought drugs were supposed to be fun, but Dean seems more nervous than anything else. Ray, on the other hand, is clearly having a blast, and it's like he's compensating for Dean's silence, because he talks almost constantly. Sam figures out eventually that Ray's not really expecting any answers.

It freaks Sam out a little, watching Dean wave his hands slowly through the air, or bring his cigarette up so close to his eye that Sam's afraid he's gonna get burned. Dean's never really out of control, but he seems completely unaware of himself, now, and it makes Sam feel… unsafe.

"How long does this last?" Sam asks. "Acid."

"Forever," Dean says.

"Six hours, give or take," Ray says. "We dropped it like, four hours ago. Went swimming. It was fuckin' awesome."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, smiles a little.

"Hey, I gotta pee," Ray says, pushes himself to his feet and ambles towards the door.

Dean drops his cigarette butt, looks at Sam as soon as Ray is inside the house.

"Sam," Dean says. "Don't take acid."

"Okay," Sam says, laughs a little. "What, you don't like it?"

"Usually," Dean says. "Usually. I like it."

"Now now?"

Dean shakes his head violently, puts his hands on his knees and looks like he's concentrating really hard. "It's just you 'n me, Sam."

"What is, Dean?"

"Ray… he… kills spiders."

"I told you, he said he was never gonna—"

"No," Dean says firmly, stamps his foot a little. "He kills SPIDERS. We… we…"

"Oh," Sam says. "Right. We kill bigger stuff, huh."

"Right," Dean says. "Kill. With guns."

"Well, yeah," Sam says. "But… that stuff deserves to be killed. We kill things that are hurting other people." Funny, usually it's Dean giving Sam this talk. "We're helping people, Dean. Saving people."

"But," Dean says. "But. Killing."

"Yeah," Sam concedes. "We're killing evil things in order to save good things."

"What is evil?" Dean asks, and Sam groans, buries his head in his hands.

"Dude, I really don't think I can have a metaphysical discussion with you right now."

Dean looks crestfallen.

"Later, okay?" Sam says. "We can talk about this later."

"It's just you 'n me," Dean repeats. "Ray doesn't… he has no fucking clue."

"No," Sam agrees. "And… you're not gonna tell him, are you?"

"No!" Dean says, looking shocked. "He's… awesome."

Sam laughs. Dean smiles a little, tentatively.

"Listen," Sam says, and on a whim he reaches out, puts a palm on Dean's back. Normally Dean would shrug him off, but right now he just sighs a little, relaxes into it. "We kill stuff, yeah. But we do it to save people like Ray. Who would you rather keep alive, a werewolf, or Ray?"

"Ray," Dean says, snorts like it's obvious. "It's just… there's always a lot of blood."

Sam can feel Dean shudder under his hand, and he lifts his palm, starts rubbing circles, slow. Dean's back is a little damp with sweat, and Sam's palms are pretty damn sweaty, too, keep snagging on the worn material of his t-shirt, but he doesn't stop.

"Can't you think about something else?" Sam asks. "I don't think this is the best time to be thinking about this."

"I can't… I keep thinking," Dean says, makes a frustrated, unhappy noise. "I hate drugs."

"Good," Sam says. "Yeah, they're bad for you."

Dean puts his head in his hand, rubs his eyes, and Sam feels his chest constrict.

"Hey," Sam says. "Let's go back inside, put all the fans in the living room, and play cards." It's the only thing he can think of, but he feels like maybe if Dean can focus on something else, something repetitive, it'll keep his mind off... whatever he's thinking about. Monsters. Blood.

"Cards?" Dean asks, snorts.

"Yeah," Sam says, resolute. "C'mon, man."

Dean rolls his eyes, but lets Sam pull him up off the chair, follows him into the house.

Ray is back on the floor, this time in the living room, all the pillows from their couch surrounding him.

"We're gonna play cards," Sam announces.

"Right on," Ray says.

They end up playing Go Fish for the next two hours, because it's the only game where Ray and Dean can keep the rules straight enough to play for real. Sam gets painfully bored after the first two hands, but he keeps going, because he can see Dean start to relax, smile more, look at the cards with gleeful curiosity rather than horror. Besides, it's nice, with their six fans in a circle around them, and Sam's cooler than he's been all day.

As the drug wears off, Dean gets more talkative, 'til finally he's ribbing Sam about his shitty card skills in complete sentences, which is really nice to hear. Sam didn't realize how creepy it was to have a silent Dean until his brother started talking again.

Finally, Ray throws his cards down. "I can't play this fuckin' game anymore. Why the hell are we playing Go Fish, again?"

"'Cause Sam sucks even harder at poker," Dean says, and Sam scowls. It's great that Dean's feeling better, but Sam's not sure why that necessarily manifests itself in teasing.

"Fuck this shit," Ray says. "Let's go back to the lake. Grab some beer."

"You got your fake I.D. on you?" Dean asks. "I lost mine."

"You mean you left it at Gretchen's house and you're too chicken to go back there and ask for it."

"Fuck you," Dean says, throws his handful of cards at Ray's face.

"Yeah, I got my I.D.," Ray says, pushes himself to his feet. "Let's go."

Sam is silent as they get up, jostling each other and talking about how maybe they'll call up "the girls" and see if they want to come. Playing cards with two fucked-up seventeen year-olds isn't real high on his list of fun stuff, but it's better than being alone in this stifling heat, bored out of his mind.

"Hey," Dean says, snaps his fingers, and Sam looks up. "Sammy. You wanna come?"

Sam wants to play it cool, but before he can stop himself he says, "Really?"

"Yeah, man," Dean says. "I'll even let you have a beer."

"You're not legal either, you asshole," Sam says, but is scrambling to his feet.

"Get your shit together, let's go."

They walk the mile down to the lake, the late afternoon sun beating down red on their shoulders. Dean's still a lot quieter than normal, and Ray says they're mostly done tripping but he's still feeling the effects.

"There's still patterns overlaid over everything," Ray says, gesturing expansively.

"Yeah," Dean agrees.

They stop at Ray's house so he can grab some towels, and Dean's smoking a cigarette so he and Sam sit down on the front step to wait. Dean's still kind of out of it, trailing his hands through the air and squinting like he can see the wake they leave. Sam leans back on the concrete step, closes his eyes.

"Hey," Dean says after a moment of silence. "Sam, you shouldn't take drugs. Seriously. I really did not want… I mean, Just 'cause I do it doesn't mean—"

"I know," Sam says, irritated. "I'm not going to. That didn't exactly look like fun, this morning, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean winces, scrubs a hand through his hair, bleached sun-blond at the tips. "Acid's crazy. It's like… once you start thinking about something, you can't stop. It's just… I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Sam says. "I'm not, like, mad at you. I mean – I don't care. I think you're retarded, but it's not like I'm… I don't care."

Dean takes a drag of his cigarette, leans down to tighten the shoelaces of his beat-up sneakers. Sam looks away.

"That was a good call with the cards," Dean says suddenly.

Sam smiles a little. "Figured you needed something to concentrate on other than, you know."

"Yeah." Dean is silent for a while again, then he says, "What I said about… what I said outside."

"What?"

"How it's… it's just you and me, Sam. And dad. It's true, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam says, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. "I know."

Dean nods, squints off into the distance.

As far as Sam can tell, he doesn't ever take acid again.


End file.
